Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Defining Love ( Chapter 34 )

Defining Love

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

Squall gazed tiredly at the shadowed ceiling of his bedroom. Casting an arm over his eyes, he continued to stare blindly into the crook of his elbow. His aversion to sleep persisted. The cup of water on the nightstand beside his bed contained enough diluted sleeping powder to knock him out for a solid eight hours, but he couldn't bring himself to drink it.

 

As his body shivered with tremors of sleep deprivation, he turned onto his side and curled up as though cold. Needing to occupy his mind with thoughts other than the temptation of drinking the sleeping potion, he checked off another day on his personal calendar. Exactly thirty-four days had passed since Cale's death.

 

Ashamedly, he had become somewhat desensitized to the relentless guilt. Even icy showers couldn't instill any more meaning into what had happened. He had labeled each moment, analyzing his mistakes to the point of dizzying exhaustion. There was nothing left for him to pick apart or dwell on morosely.

 

He wasn't willing to forget or forgive himself, but his body seemed incapable of reacting anymore. His stomach didn't turn to knots and his blood didn't run cold. The burning of welling tears hadn't plagued him since the funeral. There was no vice that squeezed his heart painfully tight when he conjured hauntingly vivid images.

 

Irvine assured him that anyone who continually exposed themselves to dark emotions was bound to grow immune, but he wondered if it might be his own insensitivity. He was left with the conclusion that while he had truly liked Cale, there had been too little time for him to love the man. The loss he felt from Cale's death was already a healing wound. It paled in comparison to the devastation he would have felt if Irvine or Laguna were taken away. He couldn't even bring himself to consider a life without Lore.

 

There was no rulebook for who to love and how much. He couldn't construct a logical outline without the entire affair becoming a heartless mess. Sometimes he imagined he had an internal clock counting down the hours, reaching a zero point where he was allowed to stop caring. He didn't think it would ever be okay not to care, even if it sometimes felt like that was where he was heading. Perhaps it was acceptable to not hold the guilt so close to his heart, but it would always weigh heavily on his conscience.

 

With a quiet sigh of resignation, Squall closed his eyes. By refusing the sleeping powder, he was assured that he could wake himself up.

 

There was no escape from his obsessive thoughts. His mind had always been a sanctuary of calmness for him to turn to at any hour of the day. Now he struggled for control amidst rampant memories. When he was awake, he couldn't stop thinking about Cale. When he slept, he dreamt of Seifer.

 

At night, Seifer infested every corner of his mind like a disease. He wanted to be rid of the man, but physical separation did little to quiet his mind and body's recollection of what it felt like to be around the arrogant ex-knight. Whenever he allowed his body to shut down for the night, he woke up with a horrible ache inside his chest.

 

Refusing to contact Seifer, he believed the feeling would pass with time and the proper distraction. In three days, he would be docking at the first marine based garden off the shores of the Island closest to Hell. He hadn't made up his mind on whether to visit Cale's parents when the mission was complete.

 

--

 

Standing center stage in a white dress shirt and black slacks, Seifer wallowed in the glory of his finished training center. Surrounded by five stories of high rising seats, a worthy crowd was guaranteed for sanctioned fights. Behind the scenes were training centers stationed around the massive edifice. There was a boxing ring, a shooting range, an extensive weight room, a fitness center, a swimming pool, an indoor track, a rock wall, and more.

 

He had gone to great lengths by consulting the few remaining retired gunblade specialists in order to create a suitable environment for anyone with enough gall to train with the outlandish weapons. While he had relied heavily on his own experiences, he had taken into consideration that Leonhart had not trained in the same way as him. Knowing his rival's need to utilize both arms in swinging the heavy blades, he was well aware of the different techniques that required different regimens.

 

His pet project had inadvertently become a source of great fulfillment. It was over the top, but he intended to make his selfish creation lucrative. He was confident he could draw crowds even during a time when the warrior's path was exceedingly bypassed.

 

He would make a sport out of mercenary training. Spars would be watched and revered, the mastery of weapons recognized by entire audiences. His ego had been the core of his driving inspiration.

 

For all the time and money he had put into it, he was gravely disappointed to consider that the battlegrounds would never be christened with a spar between himself and his greatest rival.

 

The thought of never sparring with Leonhart again struck him as unfathomable. There was little satisfaction in a match if his opponent wasn't the legendary commander.

 

Focus drifting, Seifer let his thoughts settle on Leonhart. Regardless of how busy he kept himself, there was always a tugging coercion in the back of his mind that urged him to think of his rival, to remember his last meeting with the elusive fighter. He was constantly hounded by a sense of loss.

 

While his pride had kept him from originally recognizing his attraction, he was not a foolish man. He knew Leonhart had meant something to him, and still meant something. He didn't claim to love the man, not even a little bit. Nonetheless, he had known Leonhart too long not to care on some level.

 

His desires were still perplexing, though he strongly suspected it was a matter of compatibility. Together, he and Leonhart had crossed the line of rivalry. Years ago, it had first happened during the war, when constructive competitiveness had turned into pernicious hate. They had been enemies during the war, something deeper than rivals and far more meaningful.

 

A different line had been crossed since his move to Esthar. Fate had again shaped priming circumstances, playing on his jealousy during a time when he had just renewed his addiction to the rush of excitement in their spars. His possessive nature had been played upon, stringing his ego along like a marionette until he had seized Leonhart by force.

 

Returning to his previous placement as nothing more than a rival would have been a simple matter, if not for the fact that he had tasted a rush far more addicting than battle. Leonhart's body had been the single most gratifying experience in his life.

 

Flexing broad hands that had scarcely known any joy beyond the grip of a gunblade's hilt, he stared down at calloused fingers and recalled how smooth his rival's flesh had felt. Leonhart had such a supple body, muscular and sensual at the same time. He had come to terms with the impotency he faced when seducing partners who couldn't possible measure up to the high standards Leonhart had set. He no longer found the soft bodies of women alluring and retched at the thought of bedding a man.

 

“He didn't smell like a man,” Seifer thought aloud, recalling the intoxicating scent that clung to pale skin and dusted every strand of rich brown hair. Following hours of rigorous sex, Leonhart's soiled body hadn't lost its appeal. He suspected the brunet unwittingly emitted fuck-me-now pheromones, but it was hardly a singular matter of his olfactory sense being entranced.

 

Running a hand through his hair, Seifer took a final glance around before he strode from the center of the arena. He was embittered by how eager Leonhart had been to cut all ties. While he could not fault the man for it, he felt spurned nonetheless.

 

Doubts had formed in his mind. He questioned his own worth, which was sheer blasphemy for the godlike creature that he was. It didn't seem reasonable for such passion to flare between them, and then carry on separately as though none of it had ever happened.

 

Seifer had moved out of his apartment, taking up a more fixed residence closer to his training center. He had unpacked and settled in less than a week after Leonhart had walked out the door of his old apartment. A change of setting had been necessary for his sanity. His rival's presence had been imprinted on every inch of his old apartment. Keeping residence there would have been like pouring salt over a gaping wound.

 

With a scoff, Seifer admitted that he had indeed been wounded. The entire affair had been a matter of stroking his ego, but in the end his ego had suffered a strong blow. He could not stop questioning why Leonhart didn't want to continue seeing him. The sex had been impossibly good for both of them.

 

He was aware to some degree that their continued relations jeopardized both pride and reputation. He had clearly felt the faint tug on his heart's strings, which was an obvious indicator that his emotions had been too involved and an attachment had started to form.

 

He had hardened himself against his longing. At first, he had been confident that the feeling would pass. Now, he questioned how much longer he would have to wait before he could successfully sleep with someone else and stop pining for someone he should never have tasted in the first place.

 

--

 

A small crowd had gathered in the spacious kitchen of the Leonhart residence. Several mismatched folding chairs mingled with the four fixed wooden seats around the long oval dining table. A poker night had been scheduled, at least a year overdue since its initial proposal. There had been frequent assertions here and there about meeting once a month, but everyone had their own lives and they would sooner see each other on holidays.

 

Rinoa idled in the living room, a phone attached to her ear as she said goodnight to all the children at the orphanage. The process was painstaking, but heartwarming. She paced around the living room in form fitting blue jeans and a dark navy hoodie, her silky hair tied back in a ponytail.

 

Newly arrived, Laguna waved a quick hello as he passed Rinoa. A smile plastered itself to his face as he entered the kitchen. Dressed casually in a pair of khakis and aquamarine golf t-shirt, he projected an excited aura. “I've brought my poker face,” he greeted, beaming at everyone in sight. Hurriedly, he slid into a seat beside his grandson.

 

Lore spared his grandfather a short welcome before turning his attention back to his aunt. In jeans and a white t-shirt, he had barely had time to change after returning home from practice before the guests had filed into his home. He informed his aunt once again that simply because she favored hearts over all other suits, that didn't mean they were worth more “points.”

 

Kiros stood in a formal navy blue robe, appearing somewhat reluctant to join in. “Is it too early to fold?” he muttered under his breath.

 

Standing head and shoulders above everyone in the room, Ward clapped a hand to Kiros' narrow shoulder. Bowing his head in understanding, he gave a firm squeeze before dropping his hand and moving farther inside the kitchen, his grey robe swaying with his broad form.

 

Kiros watched his silent counterpart sweep towards the island counter, bordering the milling group and keeping out of the way. Clearing his throat, he announced, “We're not playing with real money.”

 

Also standing out of the line of fire, Irvine sat atop the counter along the wall, wearing a plum wine dress shirt and dark blue jeans. He watched the merrymaking, but had a heavy matter on his mind that kept him from participating. Smirking at the dark skinned advisor, he jibed, “Afraid we'll clean you out?”

 

“Exactly,” Kiros agreed with a wry glance towards the president. Laguna's expressive nature made it easy to read the man's face while at the same time causing him to become swept away with the excitement. Had he not intervened in the last poker game, Esthar would have gone bankrupt.

 

“Alright!” Selphie exclaimed, hanging off her nephew's arm as the boy patiently explained the rules of the game to her. In a bright orange t-shirt with a four-leaf clover shimmering at her sternum and poker hat, she would have drawn attention even if she had been sitting silently in the corner. “I got it, I'm ready.” Eyes trained fiercely on the grouped examples of several different possible hands, she committed them to memory. Her son peered over her shoulder curiously, sticking close to her side amidst so many adults.

 

Lore glanced uneasily at his aunt before sharing a look across the room with his uncle. He shared a look of relief with the gunman that no actual money would be at stake.

 

Seated a hair's breadth apart, Hanna and Terri talked between themselves, stealing glances at their younger cousin every so often. Dressed similarly for the sake of confusing others, they wore matching mini skirts and halter-tops. Terri's shirt was red and Hanna's was blue. They were discussing whether their dear sixteen-year-old cousin, by no blood relation, was cuter than their uncle Squall yet.

 

Laguna curiously counted the packed seats and came to the conclusion that there weren't enough seats for everyone. “There's only seven seats,” he pointed out, not speaking to anyone in particular.

 

“That's my cue to sit out,” Kiros said decisively, striding over to join the observant marksman.

 

Irvine regarded the lanky advisor with a knowing smirk. “I'm out too. Watching all of you is entertainment enough.”

 

Selphie huffed indignantly, casting her husband a withering glare. “You can play the winner.”

 

“Darlin',” Irvine placated gently. “The night isn't that young.”

 

It was five o'clock, but the time had a way of passing unnoticed when they gathered together. The atmosphere was relaxed and the poker game was only an excuse to break the ice between the few persons unused to spending time in Squall and Lore's home. By the time there was a winner, it would be time to leave.

 

“Where's Squall?” Kiros questioned quietly. His dark eyes gazed around the room searchingly, as though the striking brunet were somehow blending into the scenery.

 

“He'll be here,” Irvine assured.

 

Lore stared across the table towards his uncle, having to read the man's lips to catch the privately spoken words. “He's bringing dinner,” he added confidently, his undertone implying that the task of bringing food automatically ensured that his father would arrive in a timely manner.

 

“I see,” Kiros commented thoughtfully, dropping the matter. He wanted to ask how Squall was holding up, but realized he couldn't do so without ruffling a few feathers.

 

“He's doing good,” Irvine said in a near whisper, his eyes trained on his nephew as though Squall's state of being directly correlated to the boy.

 

Kiros nodded solemnly. “Where is he?” he questioned in an inconspicuously hushed tone.

 

“He is bringing dinner, but he's probably still at the cemetery.”

 

Eyebrows rising in surprise, Kiros mulled the news over. At length, he commented, “It's a strange hour to pay respects.”

 

Violet-blue eyes darting a curious glance to the older man, who seemed to mirror his observant position, Irvine related, “It's been five weeks, he goes every Wednesday. Today was hectic, so he ran out late.”

 

“I heard he's leaving the day after tomorrow,” Kiros said casually, not exactly in a position to question the actions of his best friend's grown son.

 

Irvine hummed a note of quiet confirmation, not wanting to discuss the topic any further with so many ears present.

 

With a clatter, Selphie set down a flashy silver briefcase in the center of the kitchen's table. “We're going all out this time,” she declared. Smiling, she flipped open the clasps and lifted the lid. Spinning the case around, she displayed the contents. A never before used set of generic poker chips neatly packed in Styrofoam padding.

 

Grinning, Irvine watched his wife in amusement.

 

Rinoa strode into the kitchen, a hand raised as she removed her phone's earpiece.

 

Gripping the back of his mother's chair, Tyler questioned, “When are we eating?”

 

Selphie reached behind and patted her son's head consolingly. “Soon, sweetie. Your uncle Squall will be back any minute,” she promised.

 

Right on cue, Squall finally presented himself on the kitchen's threshold. Donning black slacks and black untucked dress shirt, his dark appearance told of his continued mourning. Hair damp and unkempt, spiky strands shielded a single grey-blue eye while the rest of the mane framed a pale neck. In either hand, he held several white plastic bags, the warm aroma of takeout wafting into the room.

 

Gazing around, Squall stood in the entryway a little longer than necessary, seemingly reluctant to enter.

 

Ward moved forward, reaching out to take a load of bags from Laguna's son. It seemed like a lot to carry.

 

Squall nodded faintly in thanks, handing over several bags with a rustle. Following Ward's broad figure, he moved towards the island counter and set the rest of the bags on top. “I think I got everything,” he stated, fishing out the long list from his pocket and glancing over it, observing the penciled check marks he had placed next to each item he had ordered. It had been a hassle to appease everyone's tastes, but he was thankful that he hadn't ended up running around to six different places to accomplish it.

 

“You should have let me help,” Irvine chastised gently. Leaning against a nearby counter, he crossed his arms and gave the former commander a disapproving look.

 

Frowning, Squall didn't respond. He had attended his own business prior to picking the food up. There was little sense in stopping back home just to retrieve a helping hand when he could manage the task alone just as easily.

 

Lore's chair scraped across the tiled floor as he hastily stood up. Crossing the kitchen, he sidled close to his father, but refrained from hugging the man in front of everyone. “Why's your hair wet?” he questioned worriedly. It was barely mid-July and the nights in Esthar were too cool to walk around with wet hair.

 

“Shower,” Squall supplied sparsely. Reading concern in blue-green eyes, he ruffled the boy's hair reassuringly. He had gone swimming after visiting Cale's grave. The exercise itself had been necessary when he was two days away from deployment, but using a facility several districts out of his way when his apartment building had a pool had been a matter of reminiscing. He had gone to Orion University, reliving the moments that had first created a bond of friendship between himself and Cale.

 

Irvine studied the pale brunet's face, ascertaining the man's health. While the former commander had seen better days, there was an obvious improvement since Cale's funeral. With all the acuity of a best friend, he knew it was no longer guilt that ailed Squall. He was almost afraid to consider the possibility that Squall was still hung up on Seifer.

 

Squall moved around the counter and walked towards a row of cupboards at the far end of the kitchen. Feeling the scrutinizing gaze of many eyes on his back, he frowned as he reached high for a stack of plates.

 

“Can I watch TV while I eat?” Tyler intoned beseechingly, youthfully oblivious to the silent exchanges taking place all around the room.

 

Distractedly, Selphie murmured, “Yes, but only because there isn't enough room at the table.”

 

Lore hopped to attention, hastily shuffling through the silverware drawer abashedly. His aunt had required so much of his attention that he had neglected his duty to set the table for dinner. Knowing his father was too kind to reprimand his indolent lapse, he felt all the worse for forgetting.

 

“I'll help too,” Irvine said, suddenly feeling like a bum as he watched the group's breadwinner carry about silently in preparation.

 

Squall stationed the plates in one area, figuring it would be best for everyone to serve themselves. “I'm going out again,” he commented surreptitiously, rummaging through a lower cabinet for paper napkins.

 

“What?” Lore questioned dubiously, setting a bouquet of forks down beside the stack of plates, the premature release sounding a noisy metallic clatter. “Where?” he followed up. Disappointment threatened to dampen his mood for the entire night. His father was scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow and he had no idea when he would see the man again.

 

Acknowledging his son's disapproval, Squall turned to the boy and explained, “Just for a bit, to buy stocks for my trip.”

 

“You mean potions for your mission,” Irvine corrected, pointedly inflecting his words to make the difference of meaning greater than it actually was. Whether anyone in the room cared to admit it aloud, no one approved of Squall going on a mission. Cale's death had affected the unshakeable fighter in a way that had shocked them all. Even he hadn't anticipated the level of grief the composed commander had felt. It didn't seem proper for Squall to head off into to the field during such a recuperative time.

 

Eyes sharpening, Squall regarded the gunman intently. He had sensed some heaviness in the air, an atmosphere denser than normal. He hadn't known what caused it and hadn't felt inclined to ask when no one betrayed the root of unease.

 

Irvine stood several feet away from the brunet, the penetrating gaze of steely-blue eyes losing no effect with distance. Lips forming a thin line, he hesitated in speaking his mind with so many people in the room. He knew the others were probably expecting him to speak up, since he was the best friend.

 

“Is there something I should know about?” Squall questioned slowly, eyes scanning the room. Reading the same expression on several faces, he nodded as he received an answer. Softening his gaze, he looked to the younger members of the group and addressed them in a tone far gentler than he intended to use with the rest. “Do you mind eating in the living room?” he requested, already gathering three plates and moving towards the center counter.

 

Hanna and Terri watched curiously, fascinated by the unexpected drama. Of a single mind, the twins glanced at each other and confirmed a shared reluctance to miss a single moment. Reading their uncle's insistent gaze, neither could argue. They stood resignedly.

 

Terri moved forward, smiling faintly under the pressure to vacate the premises.

 

Hanna turned to Tyler, motioning for her younger brother to move ahead of her. “Come on, we'll let you choose what to watch on TV,” she offered, knowing that control over the television would persuade the boy to hurry.

 

No one seemed to breath while Hanna, Terri, and Tyler filled their plates and left the war grounds. When the room was finally emptied of innocent bystanders, the tension only mounted. No one dared to break it.

 

Taking the reins as best he could under the circumstances, Squall walked smoothly towards the kitchen's entryway. He placed the open doorway at his back, unwilling to be cornered. Crossing his arms, he scanned the room one last time before establishing the subject of argument. “I didn't think any of you minded my taking this mission, one way or the other,” he said, putting everything into context.

 

“I always care,” Lore reminded. He had never liked it when his father left the country overnight. If it weren't for his grandfather, the occasional time apart from his father would have been unbearable as a child. Though his attachment had long since graduated from outright dependency, his worry was exacerbated by recent events.

 

Squall nodded, offering a softer gaze for his son. “I know,” he said quietly. “But you also understand that this is what I do.”

 

Shoulders straightening as he stood taller, Lore pointed out, “But you almost never leave.”

 

“I'm almost never asked to,” Squall countered, not missing a beat.

 

“Squall,” Irvine began reproachfully, “let's not beat around the bush by pretending this is something that cannot possibly be done without you. Cid asked a favor, but he didn't ask for it immediately and there are others qualified to do it.”

 

Jaw clenching, Squall stood before the firing squad, berating his own idiocy for not seeing how opposed his son and friends had been. As anger filled him, his eyes sharpened warningly. They were entitled to their opinions, but springing the matter on him so suddenly was not acceptable.

 

“This is poker night,” Selphie reminded sternly. “Don't go ruining it by bringing this up.” While she shared her husband's views, she did not like how the situation had come to a sudden head. It was rude and inconsiderate to just lay it all out in front of everyone.

 

Rinoa swallowed thickly, feeling quite out of place. If she had thought Squall's return to work was premature, she hadn't considered saying so when the estranged rift between them remained so wide. “Guys,” she began in an appeasing tone, “let's just sit down and eat.”

 

Squall stared the gunman down, waiting until violet-blue eyes lowered before he bothered looking elsewhere. “I'll be back in an hour,” he said evenly, unfolding his arms and waiting an extra moment as though daring anyone to protest.

 

Hesitating for as long as it took his heart to complete a full beat, Lore rushed to follow his father. “I'm coming with you,” he stated, almost colliding against the man's back when he caught up unexpectedly fast.

 

Intent on escaping the suffocating atmosphere inside his own home, Squall glanced back and decided that if he was making an escape, he might as well leave with what mattered most to him. He gave a single nod, walking again towards the main entrance.

 

 

--

 

Steering with one hand, Seifer loosened the neck of his tie. He felt about as comfortable in a tie as he would have wearing a frilly ascot and leggings. There were certain sacrifices he made for the sake of appearances.

 

At a red light, he relaxed for the first time since he'd gotten behind the wheel. He let out a long sigh, tired from a long day of public relations. His past had been dredged up, brought to light in the form of redundant questions regarding his status as Ultimecia's former knight.

 

Reaching up, he began to undo his tie entirely, tugging on end until it dangled lifelessly in his hand. Eyes glancing back to the hanging traffic light, he confirmed its continued red glow before letting his gaze wander elsewhere.

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a familiar car parked alongside the street. It was mid-evening, but the city's lights were bright enough to eliminate any shadow of a doubt on what he thought he saw. It also helped that he had Leonhart's license plate memorized and was able to make a match. Studying the line of buildings along the sidewalk, he knew immediately what his elusive rival was up to.

 

The light turned green, which was motivation enough for Seifer to go.

 

--

 

In an items shop, Squall perused the long aisles stocked with every item he might ever need for the most dangerous of missions. With a red plastic basket dangling off of his right arm, he selected a few items every so often and added them to his carrier.

 

Lore shadowed his father, keeping silent while searching for the right words to say. The only obvious topic of choice was the man's impending departure on a mission he had just recently expressed his disapproval over. He wasn't looking for a confrontation, which made it difficult to think of something unrelated to talk about.

 

Finally, when he couldn't bear to keep silent any longer, Lore blurted out, “So what's the difference between a regular potion and a hi-potion?”

 

“A half-pint of blood,” a baritone voice answered from behind the father and son duo.

 

Squall's entire body went rigid, tensing up at the sound of the ex-knight's voice. The sound cut through his defenses sharply, each syllable running along his spine as a tremor. He turned slowly, almost afraid to confirm with his eyes what he recognized with his ears.

 

Lore whipped around with a shocked and disbelieving expression.

 

Seifer played on the boy's surprise. “It's true,” he assured demonstratively. “The hi-potion heals more flesh faster, saving about a half-pint of blood depending on the injury.” Standing tall, he presented himself in a sharp navy blue dress shirt and slate gray dress pants. Having forgone the formality of his tie, he had unbuttoned the top couple buttons on his shirt, intent on drawing his rival's eye to his neckline.

 

Finding his voice, Lore hissed accusatorially, “What are you doing here?”

 

Turning his attention away from the boy, Seifer locked eyes with his rival. Unabashedly running his eyes over the epicene fighter's darkly clad form, the Adam's apple in his throat quivered as he gulped. The possessiveness he felt was not born of jealousy anymore. Looking at Leonhart, he simply needed to possess the man, like a sorely desired object that couldn't be bought easily. His hands longed to take hold and claim his rival as his own. If he listened to the hedonistic voice in the back of his mind, he would have tossed Leonhart over his shoulder and taken the man home indefinitely.

 

Clearing his throat as his thoughts became unfocused, Seifer hastily composed himself again. “I think that's pretty obvious,” he replied, holding the gaze of stormy blue eyes. A lesser man would have become lost in those eyes. Leonhart's eyes reminded him of a turbulent sky that was more often than not fogged over with an impenetrable defense. If he was lucky enough to surprise the man, then those eyes became a whirlwind of emotion, revealing what the introverted swordsman felt at any given moment.

 

Caught off guard, Squall was defenseless against the intense onslaught of desire that arose within his body. He felt dazed, blindsided by Seifer's abrupt appearance. Struggling to gather his wits, his voice was lost, bombarded by the throng of emotions running wild inside him.

 

“I had hoped to catch you alone,” Seifer said, sparing the boy a quick glance of annoyance.

 

Swallowing dryly, Squall finally blinked. His eyes were drawn to the strong hollow of Seifer's neck, swarthy skin displayed tauntingly. He shook his head, trying to cast off the hold Seifer had on him, but it didn't help. “What?” he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.

 

Seeing the affect he had on Leonhart, Seifer couldn't help but smile. His ego swelled, glowing with the warm hues of conceit. It would seem that his mere presence had the power to sweep the brunet off his feet. There was nothing more validating for his masculine pride to feed on.

 

“We're leaving,” Lore stated. Turning to his father, he set a hand on the man's shoulder. “Come on, Dad,” he urged.

 

Seifer's hand moved of its own accord, grabbing his rival's upper arm to stay the man. “No,” he asserted without any understandable reason.

 

Squall stood dumbfounded, his son urging him in one direction and his rival urging him in another.

 

“Back off,” Lore said seethingly. Though he was sorely tempted to push the ex-knight back to emphasize his meaning, he had no desire to exert some false projection that he could actually succeed by using force. He was an amateur fighter compared to the cocky blond who had suddenly shown up unwanted, something he was all too aware of.

 

“Are you his keeper now?” Seifer quipped sardonically.

 

Knowing he should leave without delay, Squall found that his feet refused to move. His entire body revolted against his decision to leave. He was sent back two months, to when the attraction between them had built to the point where resistance was futile.

 

“I'll accept chaperone,” Seifer conceded highhandedly, eyes gazing downward into fierce blue-green eyes. Making friends with Leonhart's son was obviously not an option. There was no reversing the dislike he read in the boy's eyes. “I'd like to have a spar,” he clarified.

 

Distantly, Squall registered that whatever Seifer intended to with him, it was not to sequester him for sex. He couldn't help but feel disappointed.

 

“That's innocent enough for you, isn't it?” Seifer inquired, his tone mockingly polite.

 

Glaring reflexively, Squall pulled his arm out of the ex-knight's hold. Heat had gathered where the blond's hand had touched and his arm felt cold on its own. “It's late,” he supplied as an excuse, not willing to divulge the grittier details of why he couldn't remain in the same vicinity as the smug man.

 

“Tomorrow then,” Seifer offered, determined to trap the brunet into accepting. “The training center opens next week and I'd like for us to test it out.”

 

“Dad's spending all of tomorrow with me,” Lore said defensively. It was a lie. He had school the next day.

 

“Like I said,” Seifer bit out grudgingly, loath to make nice with the kid, “you're welcome to tag along.” Spotting Leonhart's car on the side of the street had been lucky enough. Finding the brunet alone would have been pushing the envelope. He wanted to slip his arms around his rival and giving a more intimate greeting, but he restrained the urge.

 

“Seifer,” Squall began, immediately regretting that he had spoken the ex-knight's name, which rolled too smoothly off his tongue, “that's not-”

 

Sensing rejection on the horizon, Seifer cut the brunet off. “Don't turn me down, Leonhart. There isn't a single excuse you could make that I won't see through.”

 

As Squall stared uncertainly into jade-green eyes, his opposition melted away. “A spar?” he questioned evenly.

 

Lore looked back and forth between his father and the ex-knight. The last time he had spoken with the hectoring blond, the man had told him that his father had fallen asleep after a tiring spar. His suspicions had never been confirmed, though he felt rather certain his father hadn't actually been sparring with the brute.

 

Unable to help himself, Seifer said, “Unless you want more.”

 

Cheeks heating, Squall glared, the conscious effort succeeding in sending icy daggers.

 

Seifer smirked, amused at how easily he could unhinge his aloof rival. “Come to the center at noon. Bring the boy if you don't trust me.” Leaving no room for refusal, he turned and strode away with renewed vigor in his step. Feeling victorious, he was reenergized. The following day couldn't come soon enough. Whether or not Leonhart showed up, he had a legitimate excuse to track the man down.

 

--

 

Dressed for bed in a faded blue t-shirt and baggy grey flannel pants, Squall sat comfortably with his legs folded and his back cushioned against the headboard. He was in the process of reviewing a mountain of files for his mission. A timid knock sounded, stirring him from the lost rhetoric of reading material he had already memorized. Setting his file down, he glanced up and called out, “Come in.”

 

Lore opened the door, peering inside cautiously before stepping in completely. In plaid pajama bottoms and a white-beater, he appeared fresh from the shower. With school the next day, he was ready to call it a night at ten o'clock, but not before talking with his father. “Can we talk?” he requested.

 

Squall nodded, leaning over to clear space on his bed. “We can always talk,” he said, pointedly leaving the most room beside himself. The poker night hadn't been a huge success, but it hadn't been a disaster either.

 

Approaching his father's bed, Lore hesitated near the edge for several moments before crawling into place beside the welcoming mercenary. “It's about Seifer,” he broached tentatively.

 

Running a hand through limp strands of hair that obscured his vision, Squall regarded his son with an expression of prescient anticipation.

 

Licking his lips nervously, Lore asked bluntly, “Are you and him a thing?”

 

Quirking an amused brow, Squall questioned, “A thing?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Lore muttered, “Are you sleeping with him?”

 

Eyes widening, Squall remained surprised for as long as it took to remember that his son had probably known the truth all along. The boy had never asked whether he had truly been sparring with Seifer several weeks ago. Despite his decision to be honest, the matter hadn't come to light. He had wanted to be forthright with his son, but not under the guise of a confessional. Now that he was finally being asked, he would be appropriately candid.

 

Shifting to sit more to the side, Squall leaned on the pillows he had stacked against the headboard. Looking into his son's eyes, he said, “I did.”

 

“And now?” Lore pressed.

 

“No,” Squall answered honestly. Though a part of him wanted to sleep with Seifer on a regular and never-ending basis, wishful thinking didn't make him accountable.

 

Lore recalled the entranced expression on his father's face earlier that evening. His father had been completely wrapped up in the ex-knight, not a trace of the sadness that he sometimes caught lurking in stormy blue eyes. “But you want to, right?” he continued, painfully aware that there had been a strange attraction between the lifetime rivals. “I mean, that's what was going on back at the items shop, the whole fatal attraction thing that Uncle Irvine talked about.”

 

Squall stared at his son incredulously. “Your uncle talked to you about this?” He had confided in Irvine and wasn't surprised that his son had done the same. He was, however, uncertain when Seifer had become the greater concern.

 

“Well you weren't admitting it,” Lore explained. “I didn't want to bring it up when there was other stuff you had on your mind.”

 

Brows drawing together expressively, Squall reached out and ran his fingers through the boy's drying hair. “You know the dynamic we have isn't going to change,” he said gently, hoping he hadn't given the impression that their relationship was ever going to change.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Ending his play with short raven tufts, Squall clarified, “I have no intention of bringing someone else into our lives. It's just you and me, and your grandpa.” Only Irvine knew what he had talked to Cale about on the night of the professor's death. He imagined it would only be a burden to Lore, for the boy to know that he had chosen to put romance on the backburner for the sake of appeasing the youth's endearingly possessive nature.

 

“Is that because of Cale?” Lore asked uncertainly, not wanting to make it sound like the present “dynamic” they lived with wasn't pleasing enough. He hoped his father didn't intend to swear off all romantic intrigue because of Cale's death.

 

Squall shook his head and offered a faint smile of reassurance. “Cale was a great man and I regret his death more than anything, but that's a separate issue,” he explained. “For the past sixteen years, my life has been you.” Searching for the right words, he tried to convey the depth of his feelings, knowing his limited capacity for speaking would never allow it. “I'm happy having you with me. I don't need or want someone else. Raising you and watching you grow up is all I need.”

 

Feeling as though he had just been confessed to in a strange, non-romantic sense, Lore blushed. He was unable to respond. After several long moments of silence, he cleared his throat and returned the point he had been driving at. “I can't help not liking anyone who likes you,” he said. “I've always had you to myself and I know I'm spoiled like that, even Uncle Irvine says so.”

 

“Only as spoiled as I raised you to be,” Squall pointed out. He made a mental note to interrogate Irvine later. It seemed that his son had shared quite a bit with the gunman and he was curious about how much of it pertained to him.

 

Lore shook his head, not to refute what his father said, but to motion that he wasn't finished speaking. “That doesn't mean I don't want you to be happy with someone else. That's what I realized with Cale. And I'm sorry he's gone now. I feel responsible for how you felt since I practically pushed you into his arms after all that trouble to keep him from getting too close.”

 

Frowning, Squall tried to correct his son's blameful thinking, “Lore-”

 

Cutting his father off, Lore asserted, “My point is, I think Seifer's an ass because he obviously likes you.”

 

“No,” Squall disagreed, reflexively arguing any insinuation that the ex-knight liked him. Hesitating, he simply commented, “Seifer actually is an ass.”

 

Lore laughed, saying, “You know what I mean.”

 

“…” Squall did know what his son meant, but he was stuck on the idea of Seifer liking him. He was reminded of the run in with the ex-knight mere hours ago.

 

Sighing, Lore forced himself to clarify his position as the jealous son. “You can see people, date them or whatever. I don't care as long as you tell me. I hate being in the dark more than anything.”

 

As his expression grew distant, Squall's mind slipped back to when he had stood dumbfounded before Seifer in the items shop. The longing he felt hadn't faded in the least. Every fiber of his body wanted the insufferable man. Hearing his son's words, he nodded numbly.

 

“Dad?” Lore questioned tentatively, not knowing how to read the vacant expression he saw.

 

Agreeing with his son's concerns, Squall called upon his best friend's words to diffuse an otherwise sensitive subject. “Whatever it is that I feel for Seifer, I don't understand it,” he admitted. “Given our history, it's unsettling.”

 

Lore stared intently at his father, determined to understand how the man felt. “Dad,” he said worriedly, reading fear in distant grey-blue eyes. “You look scared, Dad. What's wrong?”

 

“I what?” Squall intoned dubiously, immediately grounded.

 

“For a moment there,” Lore said, no longer seeing a trace of fear in the man's eyes.

 

Sobering, Squall pinched the bridge of his nose while trying to imagine why there was any fear detectable in his demeanor. He rubbed along his scar thoughtfully, wondering what it was Seifer made him feel exactly. “Fear of the unknown,” he surmised evenly. “It's nothing, I'm fine,” he added.

 

“Are you going to meet him tomorrow?” Lore asked earnestly.

 

Squall was unable to answer his son when he hadn't made up his mind. Debating the evils of meeting Seifer, not to mention the hypocrisy of it, he stirred from his resting position. Gathering up strewn files, he started organizing his paperwork into a single pile.

 

Pouting at his father's evasion, Lore frowned and silently vowed not to budge an inch until he received a straight answer. “I'm going with you,” he said.

 

Standing from the bed with the files stacked against his chest, Squall regarded his son curiously. He hadn't confirmed one way or the other. He strongly suspected that it wouldn't matter by the end of the day, since the ex-knight was relentless.

 

Lore reasoned, “He'll just come here if you don't go there, right? That's what he does when he wants something.”

 

Crossing the room, Squall paused after setting his files atop the long mahogany dresser. He was struck by the notion that his son understood how Seifer operated. Turning around, he leaned against the dresser and stared at Lore searchingly.

 

“What?” Lore questioned.

 

“Nothing,” Squall dismissed, moving forward and approaching his bed.

 

Sensing his father's intention to keep silent, Lore remained stubbornly in place as the man turned the bedding down. “So, do you think we'll be there long enough to need lunch?” he inquired casually.

 

Squall tossed a pillow at his son. “You have school,” he reminded.

 

Lore shrugged, perfectly willing to ditch school and be the chaperone Seifer considered him to be. “Are you going to bed?” he asked, throwing the pillow back at his father.

 

Catching the pillow, Squall set is against the headboard and gazed observantly at the youth on the other side of his bed. “That was the plan,” he replied, taking his wristwatch off and setting it on the nightstand.

 

Lore stared thoughtfully at the down-turned bedding. He had absolutely no inclination to move. “There's no negotiating about you leaving, is there?” he murmured, addressing the big issue that no one had dared breath a word about since he and his father had returned from the items shop.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Squall placed his back to his son. “No,” he stated firmly. He might have been going for all the wrong reasons, but he knew how to keep his personal life separate from the field. The mission would serve as a distraction. His mind cleared when he held a gunblade in his hands. He needed clarity.

 

“Would it be weird if I slept with you?” Lore asked quietly, embarrassed and shameless at the same time.

 

Surprised at the request, Squall snapped his head up and turned around to see his son. He knew the youth was concerned about his state of mind and how it might impede his ability to function in the field, but he hadn't thought it was a terribly serious anxiety for the boy. If Lore wanted to sleep in his bed, then it was far more serious than he had suspected. “I won't go if you really want me to stay,” he murmured.

 

“No,” Lore said hastily, continuing to stare down at the sheets. “I know you have to work. I mean, I do want you to stay, but it's not like I won't survive without you.”

 

Brows drawing together contritely, Squall moved closer. “I haven't been called away in a long time. With all that's happened, I'll understand.”

 

Swallowing thickly, Lore struggled to keep from begging his father not to leave. More than anything, he didn't want the man to go. It was just too soon since Cale had died, and with everyone else who shared his feelings, he knew he wasn't being paranoid. “No,” he said as soundly as he could manage. “I'm just worried that you've still got Cale on your mind. That's what everyone else is worried about, but you know what you're doing.”

 

Disconcerted, Squall simply listened to his son rant.

 

“Canceling the mission would be extreme. I just wanted you to know that I was worried. You know how I get whenever a big mission comes up.” Hanging his head, Lore raised a hand to his eyes and took a moment to collect himself. “I'm sorry, Dad. I really don't want you to go,” he whispered hoarsely.

 

Squall reached out and gathered the boy close. “It's fine,” he consoled, regretting his lapse in judgment. He hadn't thought Lore was so adamantly opposed. The youth was emotionally wound up and his insensitivity hadn't helped.

 

Lowering his guard completely, Lore shifted to the side and hugged his father back, squeezing tightly. “Do you mind my sleeping here?” he reiterated.

 

“No,” Squall responded. “Stay here tonight and in the morning, I'll call Cid and let him know I'm off the mission.”

 

Pulling away, Lore stared at his father incredulously. “What?” he intoned in surprise.

 

Smiling faintly, Squall stated, “I'm not going.”

 

“Is that okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Squall assured. Breaking away, he redirected, “You still have school tomorrow and it's getting late.”

 

Lore nodded in understanding. With little thought, he moved about until he was beneath the covers. When the light was turned off, he spoke against his own interests, saying, “You shouldn't cancel it on my account. It's fine if you go.”

 

“Don't say things you don't mean,” Squall chastised, slipping beneath the covers and joining his martyring son. “Your account is the only one that matters, so it's not fine if I go.”

 

“But, the mission is important too isn't it?”

 

Settling in for the night, Squall shifted to lie on his side, facing his son. “It won't be canceled,” he informed. “It'll just be carried out by someone else.”

 

Tugging the covers, Lore jostled around until he had settled in comfortably. Lying on his back, he closed his eyes and wallowed in relief. “Dad?” he whispered.

 

“Hmm?” Squall intoned, not bothering to open his eyes.

 

Lore still had a serious contention with the following day. “Are you going to spar with Seifer?”

 

“I haven't decided,” Squall mumbled. While he feigned sleep beside his son, he intended to analyze his brief meeting with Seifer and reach a decision on whether to see the man the next day.

 

Smirking to himself, Lore muttered, “It will be a spar this time, won't it?”

 

Detecting an undertone of mockery, Squall reached out and nudged the boy's ribs.

 

Lore squirmed, chuckling at his father's defensive reaction. “I'm joking,” he returned. “G'night.”

 

Drifting silently, Squall felt at peace. Though he wasn't tired, he was too aware of Lore's presence to think about Cale or Seifer. His mind began to shut down and he eventually fell asleep.

 

 

TBC…

 

Author's note: -_- Nano is mentally exhausting. I don't know how some writers do it. I'm too anal retentive about things to not stop after every sentence and run through it again carefully in my head. Anyway, about this chapter, there was a small jump in time and maybe some weird tensions being thrown around, but at least Seifer's leaving his denial phase. Squall is a little more stubborn, but he'll get there. The story is very drawn out, and I'm so glad for everyone who's still on board. The reviews have been so helpful and supportive, I can't thank you all enough. I have no intention of abandoning this story, so even if it takes me forever to update, there will eventually be an update.